


when the mountain loves the sea

by candyharlot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot
Summary: “Pride is an admission of weakness; it secretly fears all competition and dreads all rivals.” -John RuskinA collection of vignettes following Oikawa and Ushijima's relationship from junior high all the way to their professional careers. Corresponding tags will be added as I upload the chapters. Rating will change.





	when the mountain loves the sea

**Author's Note:**

> [deep breath] i've always had a very particular timeline of events in mind for how ushijima and oikawa's relationship goes, and it starts with this. a sequel "getting-together" fic will follow after i post all of these, but for now enjoy the prelude. thanks goes to maëlle, ellie, and everyone else i've been yelling about this project to for the last few months. y'all are wonderful.
> 
> i hope y'all enjoy my take on my favorite hq!! pairing :')

“Pride is an admission of weakness; it secretly fears all competition and dreads all rivals.”

-John Ruskin

One of the many things Ushijima’s father taught him before he left was how to exemplify “good sportsmanship.”

It was one of the many summer afternoons they spent watching taped volleyball games when it was too hot outside to play. His mother and grandmother were out running errands like they always did at this time of day. The afternoon sun leaked through the cracked shoji panels, casting flakes of light across the tatami mats lining the living room floor.

Ushijima lay on his stomach in front of the TV, chin resting in his hands and feet swinging in the air. Every few minutes or so he stifled a yawn; the combination of the warm breeze and the cadenced whirling of the box fan was enough to lull him to sleep.

His eyes snapped open. The referee’s whistle was shrill and sudden—he sat up just in time to watch as one of the players was dragged off the court by two of his teammates. “Dad.” Ushijima pointed at the TV. “Dad.”

His father paused the tape before glancing down at him. “What is it, Wakatoshi? Oh.” He gestured at the screen with the remote. “That guy?”

Ushijima nodded.

“Ah. Well, you see…” His father rotated around and leaned down with his elbows on his knees, so that they were facing each other directly. This was one of the things Ushijima always valued about conversations with his father and would miss in the years to come: he spoke to him as an equal. It was so unlike the way his mother and grandmother always spoke to him.

“That player got benched for bad behavior.”

Ushijima frowned. “Bad…behavior?”

“You know how your mom always tells you to mind your manners and be polite? Yeah, well…that stuff applies to athletics, too. If you don’t have good manners, you get in trouble.”

His father glanced up at the television again with a sigh before returning his attention to Ushijima. “Listen to me, Wakatoshi,” he said. “You should _always_ be polite to your opponents, even if they aren’t very nice to you. Even if you lose. _Especially_ if you lose. At least then, you can say you acted honorably.” He took a sip of water. “That’s another sign of an incredible player: good sportsmanship.”

Ushijima nodded. “Spo…rts…man…ship,” he repeated under his breath, sounding out the syllables.

“That’s right.” His father reached out and ruffled Ushijima’s hair before getting to his feet. “Hey, I think it’s cooled down enough now. What do you think? Want to toss around the ball for a bit before dinner?”

Ushijima continued to stare at the player on TV for a moment longer before getting to his feet. “I don’t want to be like him,” he said resolutely. “I want to have good…” He wrinkled his nose as he formed his mouth around the long, unfamiliar word. “Sportsmanship.”

_I want to be like the ace you always talk about._

His father’s eyes widened, then he smiled that easy smile that Ushijima still remembers, even if he can't remember his father's eyes. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “You’ll be an incredible player one day, Wakatoshi. I’m sure of it.”

☓☓☓

Ushijima recalled that conversation with his father when at the end of his last junior high Spring Tournament, Kitagawa Daichi’s setter, Oikawa Tooru, demonstrated some very _un_ sportsmanlike behavior.

It came as a mild surprise. While Oikawa’s temperament sometimes veered towards reckless during games, he had accepted his team’s previous losses with an air of dignity that Ushijima appreciated. Sometimes he would stick his tongue out at Ushijima when he thought Ushijima was not looking, or pull down his eyelid if Ushijima made eye contact with him, but those were frivolous displays. They meant nothing.

This was different.

When the time came for them to line up and shake hands at the end of the game, Ushijima offered his own to Oikawa. “Oikawa. You played well.”

Oikawa did not move to accept. He kept his head down and his hands at his sides, balled into fists.

“I will not apologize for Shiratorizawa’s victory,” Ushijima added. “However, I regret that—”

Oikawa raised his head with narrowed, watery eyes. “Shut up,” he snapped. “I don’t need your _pity_ —”

At that moment, Oikawa’s teammate—Iwaizumi, if Ushijima remembered correctly—clapped him on the shoulder, glancing up at Ushijima as he did so. “Just shake his fuckin’ hand,” he muttered. “So we can get the hell outta here.”

Oikawa relented in the end, even if he refused to look Ushijima in the eye—as if doing so would’ve been admitting another sort of defeat, one that Ushijima could not see.

What was he not seeing?

☓☓☓

The closing ceremony followed shortly thereafter, and Ushijima and Oikawa were given commemorative plaques for their performances during the tournament. Oikawa accepted his with the biggest, most genuine smile Ushijima had ever seen him wear and after it was all said and done, he cried and laughed with his teammates on one side of the gym while Ushijima stood on the other, with only his plaque and his confusion to keep him company.

Fifteen minutes later, he came across Oikawa sitting on a bench outside the empty gym. He sat with his head bowed, elbows on his knees and phone cradled in his hands. Upon closer inspection, Ushijima noticed his plaque sitting beside him, the cheap, smudged glass frame reflecting the halogen lights overhead.

There was also a half-empty bottle of grape soda by his feet. Soda was an awful choice for a post-exercise beverage, packed with sugar and other unnecessary ingredients that slow down the metabolism. Ushijima briefly considered saying something—he had thought Oikawa to be more cognoscente of such things—but there were more pressing questions at hand. More pressing concerns.

Ushijima cleared his throat softly. “Oikawa.”

“What—?” Oikawa scrambled, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his jacket before he looked up at Ushijima with bloodshot eyes, red and swollen around the edges. “Oh. It’s _you_ again.”

Ushijima nodded as he linked his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. “Yes.”

Silence.

“I—”

Oikawa raised a hand. “Save your breath. I’m not interested in whatever it is you want to say,” he said—nasal and rough, as if he had a bad cold. He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to enjoy my last few moments of solitude before the bus ride home. In _peace._ "

Ushijima took a deep breath through his nose. “You rejected Shiratorizawa’s scholarship offer,” he stated. “I would like to know why.”

Oikawa opened one eye and let out a crude scoff. “Well, that’s easy, Ushiwaka.” He smirked as he picked up his bottle of grape soda and took a long swig. “Because then I wouldn’t be able to _beat_ you.”

“I see.” Ushijima’s frown deepened. “That is a poor reason,” he murmured. “I expected more from you.”

Oikawa rose to his feet, plaque tucked under one arm, eyes trained on the dirty gray-and-white tile. “Sounds like a personal problem to me, Ushiwaka-chan,” he muttered, and then shoved past—or at least, attempted to.

Ushijima didn’t remember grabbing Oikawa’s track jacket, but when Oikawa glanced down, and Ushijima followed his gaze, his fingers were there. Curled in the white and navy blue fabric.

He swallowed down the heartbeat rising in his throat, thick and heavy. “Oikawa—” he began, but before he could get the words out, Oikawa dumped the remainder of his grape soda right over Ushijima’s head.

“I told you,” Oikawa smiled, “I’m not interested.”

Ushijima let go and the bottle fell to the tile floor, loud as it bounced and rolled away. He was vaguely aware of Oikawa’s figure retreating, of the big glass doors swinging shut behind him, but everything was blurry. Sticky. Stained.

Ushijima didn’t follow.


End file.
